The Painter on Silk

There was a man

Who made his living

By painting roses

Upon silk.

He sat in an upper chamber

And painted,

And the noises of the street

Meant nothing to him.

When he heard bugles, and fifes, and drums,

He thought of red, and yellow, and white roses

Bursting in the sunshine,

And smiled as he worked.

He thought only of roses,

And silk.

When he could get no more silk

He stopped painting

And only thought

Of roses.

The day the conquerors

Entered the city,

The old man

Lay dying.

He heard the bugles and drums,

And wished he could paint the roses

Bursting into sound.